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The city unfolds outside the window as Aiden navigates through the last of the morning traffic.
As we approach the first chapel, I brace myself. This is the first funeral I’ve been to since we laid Da to rest back in October. As much as I’d rather not be here, it’s a necessary show of respect.
The lads were part of Dublin’s life, and their families deserve to see that their lives mattered to the Quinn family.
Aiden pulls to a stop, and I give him a nod and wait for him to open my door. When I step out of the SUV, I adjust my suit jacket, my expression set into a somber mask. “And this is for…?”
“Shane O’Brien. Parents are Murphy and Kyla O’Brien.”
The air is cool as we climb the stone steps of the church, the mournful notes of a distant organ tolling softly.
People start to notice me as I walk, whispers flutter through the crowd like uneasy birds. Some nod respectfully, others look away, their faces drawn with grief and, perhaps, fear.
I am a protector to some, a harbinger of death to others. It’s a duality I carry with every step.
Inside, the chapel is dim, lit by the flicker of candlelight. I let the grieving parents see me. If they wish for me to approach, I will. If not, I’ll leave them to their pain.
Words are useless here, but my presence is a promise—of vengeance, of protection, of a better order under the Quinn rule.
It’s nearly four by the time we’ve attended all three services and Aiden drives us to Jimmy’s pub. It’s been days since the shoot-out, and I’m pleased to see that my money has gone a long way to erasing the damage done.
Ginny is serving a few tables out on the sidewalk in the sun, and it seems like business as usual. When we step inside, Jimmy is behind the bar, and other than being able to see into my office from the pub floor, everything here seems to be sorted.
“Jimmy. What’s the craic?” I claim one of the barstools opposite him and wait. If he’s still angry at me, I’ll endure his ire, but I’m hoping that the time passed, and the restoration of the pub might’ve paved the way for moving beyond the violence of the shoot-out affecting his business.
“You look like you’ve been to a funeral,” Jimmy says, pulling me a stout.
“Aye, three of them, actually. The lads that fell to the McGuire poison.”
He slides the dark ale across the bar and frowns. “Och, aye. I heard about that. Nasty business, that.”
“It is. It is.” I take a slow sip at the edge of the glass, thankful my duties are almost done and I can return home. “I wanted to thank you for finding Laine’s mam and for sending Ginny over with the urn. It was a kindness that won’t soon be forgotten, mate.”
Jimmy wipes the bar between us, studying my expression. “She’s got her hooks in you good, does she, kid?”
Does she? “I’m not sure about that, but I like her, and I didn’t like feeling responsible for her losing her mam.”
“No. I see how that would weigh on you.”
“Anyway, I appreciate having Laine’s belongings returned. She was most appreciative.”
Jimmy arches a brow and chuckles. “And having a lady such as that in an appreciative mood is a good thing. Just how appreciative was she?”
I roll my eyes. “None of your business, old man.”
“Fine, be that way.” Jimmy laughs. “It’s just good to see you coming out of your shell again, kid. It’s been too long.”
I take another long drink and let the rich, full flavor of molasses coat my tongue. He’s right. Da’s death hit me hard and I’ve been scrambling to find myself in the midst of expectations.
Maybe it was the McGuires pushing the issue or the universe putting Laine in my path, but whatever the reason, I’m finally getting a handle on who I am.
Tag Quinn is back, Dublin.
Back and ready to shake things up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Laine
